Last Pom-Pom

I didn’t lose the bet because I was stupid. I lost because I was cocky. There’s a difference, and I need you to understand that before I tell you the rest.

The gym smelled like sweat and old rubber. Three in the morning, and the only lights on were the emergency strips along the walls, casting everything in that sick orange glow. My thighs were still shaking from the last round. Two hundred and forty-seven consecutive back handsprings. My hands felt raw, my shoulders screamed, and I was pretty sure I’d pulled something in my left hip that would take weeks to heal.

But I’d done it. Two hundred and forty-seven. Beat the record by twelve.

I dropped to my knees on the mat, chest heaving, sweat dripping off my chin. The clock on the wall said 3:14 AM. My phone was in my bag across the room, and I could already picture the text I’d send to the squad group chat. *New record. Who’s next?*

That’s when I heard the door click shut.

I turned, and there she was. Leaning against the door frame like she owned the place. Like she owned me.

Valerie Cruz. Captain of the Westside Vipers. Three years of watching her beat us at every competition. Three years of her perfect hair, perfect form, perfect fucking smile. She was still in her practice clothes, black leggings and a cropped tank that showed off the muscle definition in her stomach. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight it pulled her eyes up at the corners.

“Impressive,” she said.

My stomach dropped. Not because I was scared. Because I knew exactly what this meant.

“How long have you been watching?”

“Long enough.” She pushed off the door frame and walked toward me. Her steps were slow, deliberate. Bare feet on the mat. She’d taken her shoes off somewhere. I hadn’t heard that either. “Two hundred and forty-seven. That’s a lot of work for a bet you’re going to lose.”

I stood up. My legs felt like rubber, but I wasn’t going to let her see me weak. “The bet was two hundred and fifty. I did two forty-seven. That’s three short.”

“You said you’d beat the state record by fifteen. I looked it up. The record is two thirty-five. You did twelve more. That’s not fifteen.”

I stared at her. She smiled.

“That’s not what we agreed.”

“That’s exactly what we agreed.” She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and held it up. A recording. Our voices, tinny through the speaker. *“If I beat the state record by fifteen, you’re done. You quit cheerleading. You never step on a mat again.”* Her voice on the recording. Then mine. *“And if I don’t?”* Her laugh. *“Then you do whatever I want. For one night.”*

I remembered that laugh. I remembered how it made my skin crawl and my heart race at the same time.

“That’s not what you said,” I told her. “You said if I couldn’t do it. Not if I didn’t beat it by exactly fifteen. That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing.” She tucked the phone back into her waistband. “You agreed to terms. You didn’t meet them. You lost.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her she was twisting words, that no reasonable person would interpret it that way. But I knew Valerie. She didn’t do anything by accident. She’d set this up from the beginning. The late-night challenge, the empty gym, the recording. She’d planned for me to fail before I even started.

“What do you want?” The words came out flat. Tired.

She walked closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something floral and sharp. Gardenia, maybe. It didn’t belong in this gym. It belonged in a bedroom, at night, with the lights low.

“I want you to keep your word.”

“I’m not doing anything until I know what it is.”

She tilted her head. Studied me like I was a routine she was trying to memorize. “You know what I want.”

I did. I’d known since the moment she walked in. Since the moment she made the bet, probably. There was something in the way she looked at me during competitions. Something that wasn’t just rivalry. Something that made my face hot and my hands cold.

“I’m not a toy,” I said.

“I’m not asking you to be.”

“Then what are you asking?”

She reached out and touched my wrist. Just her fingertips, light as a whisper. I should have pulled away. I should have walked out that door and let her keep her stupid recording and her stupid victory. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“I want to see what happens,” she said. “When you’re not in control. When you’re not the one calling the shots. I want to see who you are underneath all that armor.”

“There’s nothing underneath.”

She laughed. Not cruel. Almost sad. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

She was right. That was the worst part. She was right, and she knew it, and she was using it against me.

“One night,” I said. “That’s what we agreed.”

“One night.”

“And then it’s over. You don’t bring it up. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t use it against me.”

“I won’t need to.” She stepped closer. Her body was warm, and I could feel the heat coming off her skin. “After tonight, you’re going to want to do it again.”

“You’re that confident?”

“I’m that good.”

I should have laughed. I should have told her she was full of shit. But I didn’t. Because standing there, in that empty gym, with my body still shaking from exertion and her hand still resting on my wrist, I believed her.

“Where?” I asked.

“My car. My apartment. Somewhere private.” She let her hand drop. “Unless you want to do it here.”

I looked around the gym. The mats, the mirrors, the bleachers. This was my space. My territory. Doing it here would feel like giving her more ground than she deserved.

“Your place,” I said.

She smiled. That perfect, infuriating smile. “Good girl.”

The words hit me like a slap. Not because they were mean. Because they made something twist in my chest that I didn’t want to name.

I followed her out of the gym. Through the dark hallways, past the trophy cases and the locker rooms, out into the parking lot where her car sat alone under a flickering streetlight. A black BMW, clean and expensive. She opened the passenger door for me. Like a gentleman. Like this was a date.

I got in. The leather seat was cold against my legs. The car smelled like her. Perfume and something else. Something clean and sharp.

She got in the driver’s side and started the engine. The radio came on, low. Some song I didn’t recognize. She pulled out of the lot without looking at me.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

I looked down. She was right. I put them between my knees to stop them.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” she said. “It means you care.”

“I don’t care about anything.”

She laughed again. That same sad laugh. “You care about everything. That’s your problem. You care so much you can’t breathe.”

I didn’t answer. Because what was there to say? She was right. She was always right.

The streetlights slid past, orange and white, orange and white. The city was asleep. Everyone else was in bed, dreaming about normal things. And here I was, in my rival’s car, driving toward a night I couldn’t predict.

“What happens after this?” I asked.

“We’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” She glanced at me. Her eyes were dark in the dim light. “I don’t know what happens after this. I don’t know if I’ll hate you or want you or something in between. That’s the point. That’s why I want to do this.”

“You want to figure out how you feel about me by controlling me for a night?”

“I want to figure out how you feel about yourself by giving you no choice but to feel it.”

I stared at her. The words hung in the air, heavy and strange.

“That’s fucked up,” I said.

“Probably.” She turned a corner. “But you’re still here.”

She was right. I was still here. And I didn’t know why. Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t want to admit it.

The apartment building was tall and glassy, the kind of place that cost more than my mom made in a year. Valerie parked in the underground garage, in a spot with her name on it. Of course she had a reserved spot. Of course her name was on it.

She led me to the elevator. Pressed the button for the top floor. We rode up in silence, standing on opposite sides of the car, not looking at each other.

The doors opened onto a hallway with carpet so thick it swallowed our footsteps. She unlocked the door to her apartment and pushed it open.

I walked in.

The living room was all white furniture and black accents. A couch that looked like it had never been sat on. A coffee table with a single magazine arranged at an angle. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city lights spread out below.

“Nice place,” I said.

“It’s just where I sleep.”

“It’s a lot more than that.”

She walked past me, into the kitchen. Pulled two glasses from the cabinet. “Do you drink?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

She smiled. That smile again. The one that made me feel like I was walking into a trap I’d chosen myself.

She poured something amber into both glasses. Whiskey, maybe. Brought one to me. Her fingers brushed mine when I took it.

“To losing,” she said, raising her glass.

“To losing.”

We drank. The whiskey burned going down. It felt good. It felt like something real.

She set her glass down on the counter. Walked back to me. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.

“Now,” she said. “Let’s find out who you really are.”

And I didn’t run. I didn’t push her away. I stood there, glass in hand, heart pounding, and I waited.

Because some part of me wanted to find out too.